Simple Things
by Aate
Summary: The first time they met, Newt earnestly thought Percival Graves was a simpleton. Percival, for his part, mistook Newt for a potion addict.
1. Newt: The Encounter

Pickles was misbehaving again, and Newt worried his lip, casting sharp glances around them to make sure they weren't seen.

"Come here, Pickles," he tried to sound commanding and opened the suitcase wider. "Back to your enclosure now before someone comes by and sees us."

Much to Newt's frustration, Pickles pretended to not hear. Despite of her greying fur, she was still playful like any a nundu kitten and – rather than doing what Newt was telling her to do – placed a large paw onto the swing with such determination and elegance truly only an elderly nundu could have managed it. The wooden plank creaked under her weight and she huffed down at it, sounding about as frustrated as Newt felt.

"Pickles," Newt made her name sound like a warning. "You must be careful. I'm telling you it's not-"

With a loud snap, the wooden swing gave in and broke, and a growling Pickles jumped back, startled, her neck fur standing up as she positioned herself between Newt and the swing as if to protect Newt from any and all treacherous playground equipment.

From Newt's shoulder, Pickett let out an inquiring chirp, and Newt sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He loved Pickles dearly, but sometimes her stubbornness did try his patience, especially now as they stood there on a playground in the Center of Central Park, the area hidden magically from all muggles, and when at any moment a wizarding family could well wander into sight, having come to the decision to spend some family time there this Friday afternoon. Newt was well aware most adult witches and wizards would not take kindly to a nundu on a playground, no matter how kind and playful she was, and if someone saw Pickles, the chances were the playground would be filled with battle-ready aurors in but moments and then who knew what would happen to Pickles. Humans could be cruel to nundus trying to swing.

" _Please_ , Pickles." Now pleading rather than commanding, Newt opened the suitcase wider, hoping the familiar scents in it would be enough to lure Pickles back into her enclosure. He didn't have many options left since both the chicken and the coconut perfume had failed, and it would have been useless to try to use any tempting charms on her, resistant to human magic as she was. "Get back inside – you're safe there. If someone now sees us, you'll get in trouble."

Pickles stopped growling in order to huff in her haughty manner. Newt rather felt like huffing, too, but settled for running a soothing hand through the damp, greying fur of her once pitch-black back, balancing the suitcase against his hip.

"If you're good, Pickles," he kept his voice gentle, as he picked a few wet autumn leaves gently off her fur and let them fall down onto the gravel, "I'll make you a good, durable swing in your enclosure. One just for you. One that won't break."

She turned her head. Her black eyes shone with intelligence as she regarded him steadily.

"I'll do it," Newt promised, holding the eye contact, "but _only_ if you get inside now."

This time Pickles didn't pretend to not hear him. Instead, tilting her head as if in consideration, she soon abandoned the broken swing and made her way down the stairs into the suitcase, proud and elegant as always. Relieved, Newt was quick to snap the suitcase closed and to check the locks to make sure no other creature accidentally managed to escape. Then, with an effective _Repario_ cast carefully onto the swing, he went back the same way he had come, while Pickett climbed down into the inside pocket of his blue coat to nap now that all the excitement was over.

A group of teenagers was playing quidditch on a small opening further away, their whooping and boisterous voices heavy enough in the crisp air to have Newt bend his head and hurry his steps. Since Hogwarts, he hadn't much liked the sound of boisterous teens; he always had an uncomfortable feeling they were laughing at him, silly though that was of him – he was, after all, an adult and what should it have even mattered to an adult had a child found him laughable?

Nonetheless, Newt hurried by the teens, trying to draw as little attention to himself as possible. He made way to an elderly witch and her seven leashed frogs, politely, and then spotted his destination, the statue of Gondulphus Graves in the distance.

Half an hour earlier, much to his surprise, he had encountered a flatlery on a bench in front of the Graves statue. Like all flatleries in October, she had been trying to find a spot to hibernate on, and since the public bench in the Center of Central Park was not a good hibernating spot for any a creature, Newt had attempted to move her down into his suitcase in order to then find her a better place for hibernation. Only, when he had opened the suitcase to get the flatlery in, Pickles had burst out with considerable speed, and Newt had been forced to leave the sluggish flatlery onto the bench since he couldn't have taken the risk of Pickles running into anyone.

Someone might have tried to harm her, or to agitate her.

Now, as Newt approached the statue, an uncomfortable feeling began to grow in the pit of his stomach, one that urged him to run, and even though there was no clear reason for his sudden sense of urgency, Newt had learnt to trust his instincts when they told him to hurry, and so he now abandoned running and instead drew his wand and apparated to the statue, prepared for anything from an injured duckling to a nesting phoenix.

 _Gondulphus Graves, 1660—1718, One of The Original Twelve,_ the sign attached onto the plinth of the granite statue read right in front of his face when he rematerialized. _"Brave Soul, Raise Thy Wand to Guard, to Protect, to Fight – Lest the Darkness Rejoices!_ "

With his wand pointing forward like he was brazed for a battle, Gondulphus Graves looked like a warrior, and with his baggy breaches, short cloak and a wig's curls well past the shoulders he must have made a fashionable character during the Thirty Years' War. Despite of the grandeur of Goldulhups Graves, Newt barely gave the statue a glance before twirling around to take in his surroundings, hoping to spot the source of his uncomfortable, urgent feeling.

He didn't have to look far: On the bench in front of the statue, _sitting on the poor flatlery_ , there was a wizard reading _Financially Sensible Wizardry_. The wizard was blocking the flatlery's airways on her back, _she was being suffocated_ , and Newt had his wand pointing at the wizard before his shout, "GET UP!" even had the chance to echo in the cool October afternoon.

The wizard gave him an irritated glance over the magazine as if annoyed by the interruption, then did a double take and slowly lowered the magazine, the look in his eyes more intent. The exasperated expression on his face smoothed away, as he slowly assessed Newt from head to toe, although Newt barely noticed this, his focus mainly on the dying flatlery.

Merlin. She was _dying_.

Because the wizard was ignorant enough to sit on her.

"Get up," Newt said again, clenching his wand, magic already flowing in the tips of his fingers. "You are suffocating the flatlery."

The wizard leant back on the bench, studying Newt and the wand pointed at him with a politely bemused expression. A hint of a smirk appeared on his handsome face and he offered,

"As it happens, I prefer to be the one to give orders, Mr…?"

The time was out. Her smooth skin was already starting to turn grey, and if Newt had been gone for a minute longer, she would have been past saving.

Newt swore to himself and cast the first hex that came to his mind, _anything_ to get the wizard off her _immediately_. The wizard shielded himself with the magazine, the hex evaporated from it, harmless, but it had done its job, for the wizard, now frowning, was quick jump up to his feet – and thus to get off the flatlery's airways which was really all that mattered.

"Why did you just assault me with a Tickler's Tackle? Have we met?"

Newt ignored the questions and the demanding tone in which they asked much as Pickles had ignored his pleading.

"I do not have the time for your ignorance, Sir."

"For _my ignorance?_ "

Newt pushed past the sputtering wizard to kneel beside the flatlery. He touched the smooth skin gently. A heartbeat, barely detectable, but still there. He let out the breath he had been holding.

"My _ignorance?_ Ignorance?"

The wizard sounded equally offended and perplexed, and Newt, frowning, glanced up at where the wizard was towering over him with the magazine tucked carefully under his arm. The man looked stiff.

"It was merely an observation," Newt reassured timidly after casting an anti-presurio and a few other first aid spells suitable for flatleries. "I didn't mean it as an insult."

The wizard gave him a look so dark Newt felt his face flushing and looked quickly back at the flatlery.

"Ignorant, _me!_ "

With the way he was repeating things over and over, it was starting to look like the wizard was rather slow-minded. That certainly explained how he could have accidentally sat on someone's air hole and the poor little flatlery had had to bear the brunt of that.

"You _attacked_ me and called me _ignorant_ – what, exactly, is the meaning of this?"

"Ignorance means a lack of knowledge or information," Newt felt compelled to explain, as he rubbed life back into the flatrery's motionless body. Thankfully, now that there was no longer such weight on her, the flatlery was starting to return to her normal light blue color and Newt could sigh in relief – she would make a full recovery.

"To be ignorant means that you're lacking knowledge or information."

"I know what 'ignorance' means," the wizard sounded annoyed for someone who had just learnt a new word.

"It looks like you're tending to the… cushion," he observed a moment later. "Is that why you assaulted me, because I was sitting on your property? I assumed the cushion was public property since it was left on a public bench."

"The flatlery," said Newt tersely, "is no-one's _property_ and she certainly is no cushion for anyone to sit on. She is a magical creature and deserves more respect than that."

Soon enough, the flatlery – _Susan, Newt decided_ – was fast asleep like she hadn't just been about to die, and Newt opened his suitcase and spelled her gently down into his study to sleep on his bed. The bed would do until he found her a better place somewhere suitable and safe. He didn't mind the loss of his sleeping place in the least. He had slept on the floor before.

With Susan safe and comfortable, Newt turned to the wizard who was now looking down at him with his arms crossed on his chest, _The Financially Sensible Wizardry_ no longer anywhere to be seen.

Newt climbed up to his feet, brushing dust off his knees.

"I'm sorry I hexed you," he said, apologetically. "I only did it to protect Susan. You were blocking her airways by sitting on her, you know."

"I didn't know," said the wizard, stiffly. "I also didn't know the… creature had a name."

Newt had always had a fondness for simpletons. He was a nurturer by nature, and slow-minded people woke something protective in him. He was truly sorry he had had to attack the wizard, although it was fortunate the man, slow-minded though he might be, had reflexive magic fast and effective enough to block unexpected hexes like the Tickler's Tackle.

Uncomfortable and awkward now that there was no longer a creature in immediate need of his help, Newt regarded the wizard's gleaming black shoes.

Why was the man all alone in the park? Would he even find his way back home after all the excitement Newt had caused him, or would he wander around, lost and cold? Would someone come to look for him?

"I'm Newt, Newt Scamander." Newt tried to keep his voice soothing like he would when talking to a spooked creature and regarded the man from behind his fringe. "What's your name?"

There was a pause during which the man kept studying him in silence and Newt, so awkward he could tell he was turning red, had to look away again.

"Graves," the answer finally came, and Newt sighed internally. A pigeon was sitting on Gondulphus Graves' pointed wand, and Newt wondered if this man could truly be slow enough to have read the name of the statue and think of it as his own.

"And you are under arrest for attempted assault."


	2. Newt: The Unexpected Purse

"No-one needs to get arrested," Newt said as reassuringly as he could. "I shouldn't have tried to hex you, but I only did it because you were sitting on Susan and thus suffocating her. But worry not – she is all right now, there was no lasting harm done."

There would have been had Newt been there but a minute later, but that was something this Graves – or whatever his real name was – did not need to know. As it was, Graves seemed upset enough about the situation to say things about arrests and assaults, and Newt was determined to put him at ease.

"You're not in trouble," he emphasized, "it really is okay now. I'm sorry I startled you."

It must have been unsettling for the slow wizard to get attacked and Newt wished he hadn't needed to cause this poor Graves such grief.

"I'm terribly sorry I hexed you and I truly wish it won't happen again," he therefore said as sympathetically as he could. "You must have gotten quite a fright. After all, it's not every day you get hexed with a Tickler's Tackle. It's perfectly understandable to get a bit frightened when attacked."

He had intended to comfort Graves, but his words seemed to have the opposite effect, as suddenly Graves was standing taller and regarding Newt with narrowed eyes.

"Are you mocking me, Mr. Scamander?" Graves' tone held something between amusement and a warning, and Newt, following his instincts, slouched his back and made himself smaller, less of a threat, more submissive. Graves might not have been the fastest of wands, but Newt recognized a potential predator when he saw one. With Graves, it was better to be submissive than a potential challenger, a threat.

"Not at all, Mr. Graves," Newt kept his voice calm and reassuring. "I'm merely trying to comfort you – there is no shame in getting frightened when attacked."

Now Graves let out a snort of a chuckle like he didn't want to laugh but couldn't quite stop himself.

"Since I had breakfast this morning," was said with hint of a smile, "all three of the Forbidden Curses have been cast on me with poor results on the caster's part, so it really is unlikely your gentle attempt at a Tickler's Tackle would frighten me."

Newt frowned. Graves was clearly quite unsettled to come up with such claims. Had Newt shocked him badly enough for Graves to now believe he had been assaulted with the Three Forbidden Curses? The situation seemed even worse now than it had before.

"Is there someone I could contact for you," Newt grew desperate, "so you don't need to be alone? A parent, a sibling? A guardian, perhaps? Someone who could come and get you home? I don't want to leave you here alone after all you've been through because of me."

"I must say the same, Mr. Scamander," said Graves, the hint of a smile vanishing as a serious expression took its place. "Could I contact someone on your behalf? Someone who could look after you? It would be for the best if you stayed with someone dependable for now, with someone with good intentions."

"Oh no," said Newt hastily, holding up the hand that wasn't holding onto the suitcase – now Graves was so out of sorts he was starting to copy Newt's behavior? The situation was growing worse and worse! "You don't need to do that, Mr. Graves – I'm quite fine sleeping in my suitcase – but thank you."

"In your suitcase," Graves repeated, flatly, and Newt's heart filled with sadness and sympathy for this poor man who had to repeat so many things to himself in order to understand them.

"You... think you sleep in your suitcase?"

"I do sleep in my suitcase," Newt said, patiently, and gave his suitcase a soft pat. "It's quite convenient, if you move around a lot."

Growing silent and contemplative, Graves adjusted his silver cufflinks as if out of habit before finally giving a terse nod as if coming to a decision.

"I withdraw all my charges against you," he said. "I will not arrest you."

"I'm glad to hear that," Newt played along, relieved Graves was no longer fixed on assaults and arrests. He forced himself to meet the brown eyes and offered a smile that felt tentative on his lips. He hoped it looked comforting.

Graves stared at him with a blank expression for several silent moments, before letting out an exasperated sound and turning his head away.

"My apologies for staring." He rubbed his neck with a gloved hand. "Apologies also for sitting on your… pet."

"Susan is not my pet," Newt explained patiently. "I'm merely looking after her now that she is not able to do so herself due to hibernation."

Sleepy or not, Susan would have devoured Graves in but moments had Graves sat next to her, startling her awake, rather than on her, cutting off her air, but since Newt didn't want to upset Graves any further, he left that unsaid, terribly fascinating aspect of flatlery behavior though the complex digestion system might have been.

Besides, apart from the occasional devouring, flatleries were completely harmless, if you knew how to handle them, so it would have been an unfair representation of them to focus merely on their eating habits.

"I won't arrest you," Graves repeated himself, "and I suggest we settle this matter between the two of us – unless, of course, you want a third party to judge the situation?"

"That's not necessary," Newt said quickly. "As far as I'm concerned, the matter is settled for as long as you promise from now on to pay more attention to where you sit."

"Reprimanding me for my momentary lack of caution is hardly a suitable enough settlement – it would not stand in any a court and I can hardly put that down in any paperwork." Especially for a slow-minded wizard, Graves sure sounded serious. "Instead, I suggest financial compensation for mishandling a creature in your care."

"That's really not necessary," Newt managed, but Graves was already fishing out his wallet, a nice leather one, and the next instant there was a heavy weight in Newt's coat pocket.

Surprised, Newt looked down at it and put his suitcase down carefully in order to fish into his pocket. There was a velvet money purse in his pocket and when he opened it, he gaped, seeing all the coins inside.

"There are at least-" Newt did a quick count and weighed the purse in his hands, " _at least_ two hundred dragots in here. This is far too much to hand over to a stranger casually like this."

"I disagree, respectfully," Graves sounded satisfied. "I fined myself suitably and paid the fine. The matter is now settled, is it not? Please, rent yourself a room, Mr. Scamander – that should cover the cost for a few months. The streets are not a kind place to pretty, good-hearted people, and I must ask you to find yourself shelter."

Startled, more so than anything, Newt looked from the purse to Graves. He could hardly take money from a simpleton, even if the simpleton was clearly a member of a wealthy family, judging from his fine, black coat, expensive-looking trousers and gleaming black shoes.

He couldn't take money from this man.

It would be wrong and _immoral_.

Before Newt could return the offered money, however, Graves was suddenly frowning, looking down at the golden watch on his wrist.

"I'm being summoned," to Newt's ear, he almost sounded regretful. "I must leave at once. Good day, Mr. Scamander."

With that, Graves was gone, leaving behind only a lingering scent of musky aftershave and a troubled magizoologist who didn't quite know what to do next.

* * *

 _A/N: If you've enjoyed the fic so far, give me a reason to continue by letting me know you're still reading._


	3. Newt: At the Headquarters

"Do you think I'm this stupid?" asked the tall ginger on-duty, slamming the sketch of Graves against the reception desk. His gleaming name tag – _Junior Auror Andrews_ – looked as new as the auror it was attached to looked mad.

"And before you open that cock-sucking mouth of yours to continue stuttering, _Mr. Civilian-for-sure_ , I'll answer the question on your behalf: no, I am not this stupid. I'm not buying this. If you want to prank me, try to make it more believable. This kind of a sorry-excuse-of-a-prank is an insult to my intelligence. I graduated at the top of my class, just so you know! You're making me unreasonably livid by offending my intelligence with a pathetic prank like this."

Newt didn't know what to say, so he said nothing. He wasn't sure if he could have said something had he tried to because there was now a lump in his throat and the lump was making it difficult to swallow. Something about Junior Auror Andrews and his demanding presence had made him stutter from the start which had made the situation all the worse, and now Newt felt so uncomfortable he just stood there, frozen, unable to speak, while Junior Auror Andrews kept on sneering at him from the other side of the reception desk.

"You can drop the doe-eyed civilian act already by the way," Andrews said, scoffing. "I already told you I'm not buying any of it. Are you a member of Team Gamma? Or Team Zeta? Surely not Team Alpha? Those guys are beyond serious, almost like the director himself. Sticks up their asses."

Frustrated, Newt kept on wringing the cuff of his sleeve with the fingers that weren't wrapped around the handle of his suitcase, but try as he wanted to, he just couldn't talk to Andrews. He had never been good with those kind of people who seemed to suck all air out of the room with their loud manner and demanding presence, those similar to Andrews. If it now hadn't been for the heavy money purse in his pocket, he would have left the auror headquarters.

If Newt hadn't been determined to return the money, he would have now bolted and never looked back, but as it happened, he felt it important enough to see the money returned he was prepared to withstand some scorn and discomfort.

It had been five days since he had met Graves in the Central Park and in those five days he hadn't manage to find the wizard again. It seemed likely Grave's guardian had called him home, having placed summoning charms on their protégé for safety reasons, and Newt had – after none of his trusted Tracker's Spells worked – eventually had to resign himself to the fact that he wasn't going to be able to locate the wizard by himself. That was why he was now standing in the lobby of the Magical Law Enforcement five days later, prepared to hand the dragots over to the authorities.

If only Andrews would stop insisting it was a poor attempt at a prank – not that it was the first time authorities didn't take Newt seriously. In fact, it was such a common thing he now felt resigned more so than surprised or outraged, and he didn't even bother to dwell into Andrew's motives more closely.

More often than not, authorities made his life more difficult simply because they didn't like his face. And some simply didn't need a reason.

Initially, though, all had been going relatively well despite of Newt's stutter. Andrews had listened attentively when Newt had told him of the slow-minded wizard whom he had encountered five days earlier, and Andrews had even been taking notes and asking relevant questions. It hadn't been until Newt had presented him with the rough sketch he had made of Graves that things had changed. As soon as Andrews had seen the sketch, he had begun to call Newt names and to say things about Newt "being an auror trying to make him look stupid for the amusement of others".

" _Pathetic_." Andrews was shaking his head once more, pityingly, and Newt dropped his gaze with his ears burning – people in the lobby were starting to pay attention, he could feel their eyes on his back. "Seriously. I knew there might be _some_ kind of a welcoming prank, but even if I've only had my badge for two weeks, it doesn't mean I'd be _this_ dense and green. You have to try harder than _this_."

"I'm n-not t-trying to p-prank you," Newt managed by keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the counter rather than anywhere on Andrew's person.

Clumsily, almost dropping it, he put the money purse onto the reception desk between them. The coins let out clinking sounds as they rubbed against each other.

"I just want to r-return these to their r-rightful owner."

"Sure, of course," Andrews sounded mocking, "and you can fuck off right along with them, whoever you are. Who do you think I am? A little whore, like you? I bet it's all leprechaun gold anyway. As I said, I'm not this stupid. Who put you up to this?"

"Is there a problem here?"

A large bulk of a man materialized next to Newt. "Senior Auror Berry," read on the worn name tag attached to the man's chest and someone had written above "Berry" with red ink, "STRAW." A quick glance revealed a jovial face, green hair and a red coat covering wide shoulders and a narrow waist. Senior Auror Berry did indeed somewhat resemble a strawberry.

"No, Sir," Andrews cleared his throat. "No problem at all. Although this man is preventing me from focusing on my work."

"Indeed?"

Andrews was quick to let Berry in on the situation, claiming Newt was there to prank him and that he hadn't fallen for the prank. After Andrews was finished and fell quiet, Newt did his best to stutter out his own version of the events, while Berry regarded the sketch of Graves critically.

"It's a good sketch," Berry eventually said long after Newt had fallen silent. "Are you one of our new sketch artists?"

Newt shook his head.

"You're quite talented," mused Berry, eyeing the sketch. "The likeness is unmistakable, although you might have made him a bit more handsome than he actually is. Nonetheless, I'd have recognized Graves from miles away."

Newt's head shot up and he stared at the green hair, hopeful.

"You know Graves?"

"Of course." Berry waved a hand dismissively like the question meant little to him. "I'd recognize this ugly face anywhere. We're distant cousins, after all. Hey, Otterfield, Frank, Jacobson, you might be interested in this missing person case. Come here, will you."

The last part was spoken over Newt's shoulder and soon there were three more aurors crowding the space that should have been Newt's and his alone. While Newt fidgeted, anxious due to their proximity, Berry filled the three aurors in on the situation. Thankfully he didn't say anything about pranks and rather seemed to believe what Newt had been telling Andrews all along, and the three other aurors listened intently, the sketch of Graves going from hand to hand.

"It's a good sketch," said a bald wizard gruffly right in front of Newt, an unlit cigarette tucked behind his ear. "You one of our new sketch artists?"

Newt couldn't answer. It took all he had to simply endure the crowd pushing against him, looking at him, staring. His own gaze went from one person to the other, rapidly, and he barely saw any details rather than a swarming mass of people who all wanted near him. He wished they would leave, he wanted them to go away, to leave him in peace. He tightened his hold around the suitcase. He didn't know when he had begun to hug it to his chest.

"Please g-go away," he managed after several tries, but perhaps his voice was too soft to be heard clearly because the now frowning wizard in front of him said, after having leant in closer as if to hear better,

"No way? Well, our loss, I suppose."

"So you're positive – absolutely positive," said a bulky witch, wearing all green, from Berry's left, "that this wizard who called himself Graves is a simpleton?"

Newt gave a confirming nod, not daring to open his mouth since he didn't want to risk accidentally squeaking like sometimes had happened in similar situations.

It had been a mistake to approach the aurors with this, Newt now suspected. Perhaps it had been a mistake to seek them out, to come to the Woolworth building to bring his troubles to the MACUSA. He had earnestly believed the aurors would help, but he hadn't anticipated getting crowded by them. With all the aurors now invading his personal space and demanding his attention, he was no longer that confident with the wisdom of his plan. Or rather, Newt still did believe the aurors had the better chance of locating Graves than he did, but it now appeared he needed to sacrifice his personal comfort in order for them to help.

Still, Newt was prepared to do just, if it meant Graves would get his money back.

"I think," said Berry in his friendly manner just then, "that I might know where to find the guardian of this simpleton, Graves."

* * *

 _A/N: Let me know if you liked it. Otherwise I'll never know. Your comments are the reason for me to keep on writing._


	4. Newt: The Guardian of Graves

A woman was sitting at the desk on the third floor, just as Berry had said she would. With her brown curls just pass her thin shoulders and the round classes a little too big for her narrow face, she fit Berry's description and so Newt dared to approach, the money purse in one hand, the suitcase securely in the other.

"Yes?" the woman said without looking up from her typewriter the second Newt was standing by her desk. Her fingers flew on the keys like those of a skilled pianist and the high "ping" sounds came fast one after another whenever she was finished with writing a line. "How may I help you, Sir?"

"Uh…" Newt glanced around, worrying his bottom lip.

He was clearly in the very heart of the Magical Law Department. On his way here, he had passed by two bullpens filled with busy aurors, a cafeteria called "The Copper's Delight" and several small offices which seemed to be dedicated for the lower ranking officers. Now, though, there was a corridor worth of firmly closed doors with secretaries sitting at their desks in front of each door, and where the two floors beneath had been bustling with life, this third floor had an almost somber atmosphere in it like the area itself held a considerable amount of authority. There were people sitting on benches outside the doors, waiting to be allowed in, and all the wizards had taken their hats off and each witch seemed more or less nervous. Some were talking in tones so hushed their voices didn't carry in the echoing hall.

Newt didn't like places like this, but recalling the fine clothes of Graves, he wasn't surprised Graves' guardian would be found there.

He just hoped Pickett would have the sense to stay out of sight. He didn't like the idea of aurors noticing him, even if it wasn't illegal to be a bowtruckle's home tree.

"I'm-" Newt fidgeted from foot to foot, "I'm looking for Graves' guardian. Senior Auror Berry said I might find her here."

The sound of the typewriter stopped and when Newt dared a glance, he saw she was regarding him critically from behind her round glasses.

"I suppose that's not an entirely false description of what I do," she eventually decided. "My name is Miss Amanda Kimton. Are you here to book for an appointment, Sir, or how may I be of help?"

He had found her! He had found Graves' guardian.

With a weight having been lift off his shoulders, Newt put the money purse onto the desk with a lighter heart.

"I'm here to return these. Graves gave them to me by way of apology and I of course can't keep them."

"Ah."

Kimton didn't sound surprised and Newt had a sudden feeling it wasn't the first time someone had come to her to talk about Graves and apologies. Sympathy, full and heavy, filled Newt's heart. Poor Graves might have had an unfortunate tendency to get in trouble – people had poor tolerance for anything they regarded as different.

Kimton had resumed her furious typing. She was frowning down at the paper as if annoyed with it.

"If you wish to make an official complaint," her voice was considerably cooler than before, "I advice you to go to the reception desk four. You'll find it on the bottom floor. Someone there will help you to fill out the forms. Good day."

"I'm not here to file complaints," Newt hastened to explain – Merlin, he didn't want Graves to get in trouble with protective services, or anything alike. "It was all just a… bit of a misunderstanding, but Graves was summoned away before I could return his money. I only came here to find his guardian to return it all."

"Return it all?" Kimton turned her frown to him, her fingers coming to a halt on the keys. "Perhaps I should book you an appointment after all, Mr...?"

"Scamander, I'm Newt-"

" _Scamander_ ," a low voice spoke from right behind him. Newt had learnt the hard way to never give out his start (certain creatures reacted unfavorably to fast movement) and so, despite of his start, he didn't twirl around but instead turned around at a more sedate pace.

He came face to face with… Graves himself.

Newt blinked. Graves looked just the same and somehow that was surprising after all the time Newt had spent looking for him.

Fine clothes. Handsome. A bit tired-looking around the eyes. Holding a mug of steaming coffee in one hand, a stack of papers under the other, and _that_ , if anything, surprised Newt.

"You work here?" the words were out before he had thought them through and he instantly flushed, embarrassed by his lack of tact. "I'm sorry, Mr. Graves. Of course you can work here, or anywhere you like. It's great you've found a place to work at in this time and era. It's not easy to find a job these days."

Especially if one was challenged in certain ways, like Graves. As his guardian, Miss Kimton must have helped him to get a job at the MACUSA. From the looks of it, Graves' job was to bring coffee and files to the higher ranking officers. The way he held the coffee mug spoke of practice, and based on the careful manner with which he was carrying the files, it looked like Graves took his job very seriously indeed.

"Some would say I live here more so than work," Graves' reply came after a pause, eyes intent enough for Newt to feel the need to lower his. "But what was it that I heard about you returning money?"

"Oh. Yes." Now all business, Newt tried to stand up straighter and made a conscious effort to not hunch his shoulders, while Graves handed the files dutifully over to Miss Kimton.

"I'm afraid I really can't take any of it," Newt spoke as firmly as he could, "although I do of course accept your apology. All is forgiven, Mr. Graves, and I don't need any financial compensation. In all honesty, I've been looking for you for days to return the money. I wouldn't have found you at all, if it hadn't been for Senior Auror Berry, who was helpful enough to direct me to your guardian. I was just talking to her when you arrived."

Graves was staring at him, blankly.

"My… guardian?" he repeated in his slow manner. "My _guardian_?"

"I meant Miss Kimton," Newt said, gently, reminding himself to be clearer with his interaction with Graves.

"You think Miss Kimton is my _guardian_?"

"That's one word for it," Miss Kimton put in, "but I believe Mr. Graves would prefer it, Mr. Scamander, if you didn't call me his guardian. Rather, I am his-"

"SECRETARY!"

Graves' voice echoed in the hallway long after his mouth had snapped closed.

* * *

 _A/N: Liked it? Leave a comment and let me know._


	5. Percival: The Offer

As quick as his temper was to flare, as fast Percival was to get it again under his control. Truth be told, he was embarrassed for the temporary loss of control over his emotions, even more so than insulted over getting mistaken for someone who would need a guardian, and a heavy dose of guilt was quick to mix in when he saw Scamander, a troubled _civilian_ , hiding his flushed face behind the reddish-brown fringe with his shoulders suddenly hunched like he was attempting to seem smaller after getting yelled at. A potion addict Scamander might have been, but he was a kind-hearted one at that and deserved better.

It was a rare occurrence for Percival – usually so comfortable in his skin – to feel embarrassed and he didn't like the feeling at all. Now, despite of his unexpected, childish urge to crawl under Miss Kimton's desk to hide, he was nonetheless determined to deal with the situation with dignity.

"I apologize for raising my voice," he therefore said, calmly, once his shout was no longer echoing in the hallway, and offered both Miss Kimton and Scamander apologetic bows of his head. "That was unbecoming and hardly necessary. It was an overreaction to a pure misunderstanding."

Conscious of the people looking in their way along the hallway, he made sure to meet each of the enquiring, curious looks with a polite nod of his head. People, caught staring, were quick to look away.

"Apology accepted," said Miss Kimton with a dismissive wave of a hand before adjusting her round glasses, sending a sharp, assessing glance in Scamander's way, flipping through her calendar book.

Scamander, flushed red from face to the tip of his ears, still wasn't looking up, all his attention now seemingly on his combat boots. His fingers were white around the suitcase, the same worn one Percival had seen with him the last time, the one in which he kept his pillow.

"I apologize, Mr. Scamander," Percival repeated the apology as sincerely as he could. "I shouldn't have yelled at you."

Scamander still wouldn't look up, and so Percival added, gently, after a minute or two, "You don't need to fear me."

"I'm not afraid," was mumbled in a voice so soft Percival could barely make out the words. "It's- it's okay, Mr. G-Graves."

"Sir." Miss Kimton was frowning down at the calendar. "Should I book Mr. Scamander a meeting with you later this week? Perhaps on… hmm, let's see… on Wednesday afternoon?"

On Wednesday morning, Percival would be busy attending the International Security Conference, and if he had learnt anything from the previous international security conferences it was the fact that they always lasted for considerably longer than one anticipated beforehand. That was to say, he likely wasn't going to be free on Wednesday until late in the evening and Miss Kimton was well aware of that.

She was therefore now tactfully enquiring whether Percival would even want to meet Scamander whilst giving Scamander the impression that Percival was actively considering making time for him – this was how they always did it when Miss Kimton was uncertain whether Percival would want to meet someone personally or not. If Percival now allowed Miss Kimton to book the Wednesday afternoon for Scamander, come Wednesday afternoon, she would apologize to Scamander on Percival's behalf and explain how there had been an unexpected delay which would "prevent the director from meeting anyone" that day. This would happen again and again until Scamander would eventually give up on meeting Percival altogether – was Percival to now imply it, Miss Kimton would make sure Scamander would never be allowed into his office even while Scamander would simultaneously be made to feel appreciated (Miss Kimton was a master of such tactics).

As a result, Percival and Scamander would never meet again.

"No," the word was out so fast Miss Kimton looked up from the calendar with a surprised blink. Percival cleared his throat and took a sip of his still warm coffee so he wouldn't reveal too much of his feelings. "I'll rather deal with the situation right away. It's my lunch break anyway. Please, Mr. Scamander, if you would kindly follow me."

Floating the money purse by his side, Percival led a stumbling Scamander into his office and closed the door behind them. Once inside, he had the money purse flying on top of his closed case files on his large mahogany desk, whilst he himself turned to Scamander, who was hugging the suitcase to his chest and eyeing the door handle longingly as if prepared to bolt at any second.

"May I take your coat?"

Scamander didn't look away from the door handle, but Percival saw him biting his lip. Then, slowly, Scamander lowered the suitcase down onto the Persian carpet and let himself be helped out of his blue coat.

The material of it was clearly charmed to be durable, yet it was softer than Percival had expected, and he placed it onto the coat rack with great care when it occurred to him the coat could well be worth more than all of Scamander's other possessions combined. It had an earthy scent to it, something of a rainy day and mossy forests, and Percival wondered where Scamander could have possibly been crawling in for his coat to smell like forests.

Without his coat, standing there in a white, stained shirt and a yellow vest, Scamander looked almost vulnerable, the hunch of his shoulders and the careful tilt of his head only adding to the effect. Surreptitiously, Percival added a warming charm and a few protective charms onto the coat with voiceless magic – it wasn't his right to use magic on Scamander's possessions by any means, but he rather thought the added protection might one day be needed. At least now when wearing the coat Scamander wouldn't freeze to death, even if he were intoxicated enough to lose consciousness.

He took Scamander into his study and they sat down onto the modernly curved sofa. With a snap of his fingers, Percival had porcelain plates, a cup and some cookies flying from a cabinet onto the sofa table, and the pot hurried to pour Scamander tea. Percival still had his mug of coffee mostly full and so the pot didn't attempt to fill it.

"I must say I'm surprised," Percival admitted, savoring the rich aromas of his coffee. "I hadn't expected to see you again, least of all here to return the money I gave you."

Scamander's ears were red. He had added the teacup to his defenses and was now hiding behind it and the fringe both. For a few short moments, his round eyes peered over the cup from behind the reddish curls before their gaze was quickly lowered somewhere to the level of Percival's jaw.

"I couldn't have kept any of it," his voice was soft. "It would've been wrong."

"Because you thought I was – shall we say – _on the slower side_?"

Scamander's blush deepened.

"I'm terribly sorry for the misunderstanding, Mr. Graves. This is all very humiliating. I was badly mistaken."

Scamander proceeded to explain how he had looked for Percival for days, how he had eventually come to the MACUSA with the money purse and how the aurors had reacted to the situation. While Scamander talked, stuttering on occasion, Percival, conscious enough of the blue eyes on him for it to almost feel like a physical touch, resisted the urge to rub his jaw and instead fished for a cheese sandwich – his lunch – from the inside pocket of his suit jacket where he had carefully folded it into a napkin.

"You must be hungry," he noted once Scamander had fallen silent, and felt instantly a bit stupid for stating the obvious.

A potion addict living on the street? _Of course_ Scamander was hungry. He was pale and slight and lean and almost too thin for his height as it was, not yet quite malnourished, but if he kept up his self-destructive behavior, in some months that wouldn't be a far-fetched scenario at all.

Yet, despite of his hunger, Scamander hadn't spent a single dragot because he had deemed it immoral – Percival had charmed each coin and he was therefore well aware they were still all in the purse. Additionally, had Scamander used a single one on anything illegal, the spell would have notified Percival of it instantly. The spell would have also given out Scamander's location and Percival could have then gone and arrested him.

Later, after their first meeting when he had been alone in his office, Percival had half-hoped Scamander would give him a reason to go arrest him. That way, he could have brought Scamander in for eye-keeping – that way, he could have guided Scamander to the people who could help him, to the healers specialized in addictions. Percival was well aware he couldn't save them all, but Newt Scamander…

Newt Scamander was different. He wasn't yet past saving. Percival's gut was telling him this man, this wizard, was of the good kind. He was a rare one, someone with an earnestly good heart, and the tender way in which he had desperately attempted to give first aid to a pillow he had seen as a creature was still clear in Percival's mind. It wasn't the kind of behavior he was used to seeing from addicts, it wasn't what he would have expected from someone out of his mind with potions enough to mistake a pillow for a living thing.

There was still hope for Newt Scamander. Newt Scamander was no lost cause.

"Here, have this."

Percival took a hold of Scamander's delicate wrist and placed the cheese sandwich onto the open palm. He closed Scamander's long fingers around it and Scamander allowed it all, either because he was starving or because he didn't know how to refuse the offer.

Saluting with his coffee mug, Percival let go and gave a wry smile.

"Bon appétit, Mr. Scamander."

He drank a mouthful of coffee. It was warm and bitter and perfect – Franzeska knew her beans – and much to his satisfaction, Scamander unfolded the napkin and began to nibble the sandwich.

The steady tick-tock of the longcase clock in the back of the study was interrupted some time later when the bell stroke twelve. Scamander sat up straighter at the sound of it, still holding onto the half-eaten sandwich with both hands.

"It's noon already? I should get into my suitcase. It's almost the feeding time."

Feeding time? Percival's hand stopped mid-air where it had been raising the mug up to his lips. After a moment or two, he allowed the hand to complete its trek and took a sip, now uncaring of the taste in the face of the more pressing matter.

"Feeding time?"

"Yes," Scamander's eyes were looking to the suitcase he had left by the coat rack. "Some of the creatures need to be fed at noon. I should- I should get into my suitcase to… to feed them."

Nursing the mug, his mood suddenly sour, Percival leant back in the sofa.

Feeding time indeed. That what Scamander called it when he needed a fix of potions? Feeding? Getting into his suitcase?

With an effective wandless spell, Percival assessed Scamander from head to toe, careful to not alert the man he was doing so. The spell came back negative, meaning Scamander didn't have any illegal potions in his possession, and the suitcase gave similar results. Scamander, now wringing his hands, didn't have any illegal potions on or with him.

He would need to leave the office to get some.

Percival considered the man next to him with narrowed eyes. Scamander was no lost cause, but Percival was by no means in a habit of picking up strays or going his way out to personally help the people who had fallen on hard times. If he saw in the line of duty someone who needed and wanted help, he had one of his aurors to guide the person in need to the source of help, but he rarely got involved personally. Now, though, here he was sitting with a potion addict in his study and he was wondering whether-

Of course, he should just call for Goldstein, or Madkins, or Jeffield, and let one of them deal with the situation. They dealt with these situations, they were paid for it. Percival didn't need to get personally involved – it would be ill-advised of him to get personally involved. He should just call for his aurors, those who liked these kind of situations, these situations where they could help others.

Scamander did need help. Percival was well aware of what happened to people addicted to potions. It would only be a matter of time before Scamander would be out there selling his body to strangers in exchange for potent potions. Scamander would be beaten and raped, his possessions gradually either destroyed or stolen. It would be a hard, cruel life on the street, not one meant for anyone, let alone for a gentle soul like Scamander seemed to be.

Percival sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He knew well why he hadn't yet called for someone else to take care of Scamander: Scamander was a rare ray of sunshine, bright in the world Percival had learnt to regard as a dark place. He was reluctant to let that brightness go, he wanted to keep it around for a little while longer.

Perhaps, a tempting voice suggested, perhaps this could be his one good deed, to balance out all the darkness he faced daily. Perhaps he could show Scamander there were still things in life worth fighting for. Perhaps Scamander would be resilient enough to beat his addictions, if someone gave him support. Perhaps, if given the chance, Scamander would see his own brightness and go towards it and away from the darkness all around.

Perhaps all he needed was another start and some support. Percival did have the means of giving him both.

Scamander was no lost cause. Percival had seen such and Scamander was not one.

"Mr. Scamander, I would like to be frank with you."

For a few heartbeats, Scamander regarded Percival silently from under his lashes before returning his attention to the suitcase. Percival went on,

"We've all made some bad choices along the way. They're a part of us, sure, but we can move on given the chance. There is always hope, or at least many like to believe so. I'm now going to make you an offer and I hope you'll accept it."

Scamander was again studying him from behind the fringe with wary curiosity, and Percival paused, unsure if he was really going to go through with this – had he gone mad? This was madness, wasn't it. He didn't even know this man, this Scamander, and what he was about to do was completely out of character.

Still, there was no proof of Scamander having broken any laws – or if there was, Percival could claim ignorance since he hadn't yet read Scamander's file. Technically, in Percival's eye, he was therefore no criminal, so there were no regulations against this. Percival was well within his rights to offer,

"I'm inviting you to live in my home until you find other lodgings."

It would be a start. They could work it from there, but Percival needed to take small steps, to approach the situation with care. First, he would provide Scamander with shelter and food. Then they would try to establish routine into his life. Then, when Scamander was more comfortable, Percival would talk with him about the addiction. They would get help, professional help, but first Percival needed to get Scamander off the streets and into a safe place.

There was no place safer than the manor of _The Dutiful and Honorable House of Graves_.

Yes, Percival's resolve hardened, this would be his good deed. He would do all he could to see Scamander's light brighten.

"You won't need to pay rent, but I expect you to exercise daily and to eat five times a day with me."

"That's very kind of you, thank you," Scamander was addressing Percival's right shoulder, "but I have to decline. I quite like sleeping in my suitcase."

Percival resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.

 _In his suitcase_ , indeed. Scamander did have a pillow in it and he probably charmed the opened suitcase to float above him as a roof each night.

"I understand this is an unconventional offer," he said, "but I made it in all sincerity with no ill intentions. You do not know me, Mr. Scamander, but there is a phoenix living up in my attic – I hear the phoenix are good judges of character and if one has decided to live with me, I can't be that terrible of a flat mate."

Scamander was now openly staring at him, eyes wide and surprised.

"A phoenix?" he breathed out, awed. "I've met one before, of course, but… but it would be an _honor_ to see another one."

He hesitated, momentarily.

"Perhaps… perhaps I could come with you to see the phoenix?"

"That is fine by me," Percival promised easily. "You can come by and see it and then you can decide if you want to stay as my guest or not."

And so it was decided.

Shortly after, Percival left Scamander in the study with the rest of the sandwich and went back into his office – he had aurors to reprimand for how they had treated a civilian who came to them for help (and by Merlin, if Berry had again scribbled nicknames onto his badge, he would find himself sweeping the lost-and-found archive for the rest of the week).

Some half an hour later when Percival got back into the study after having given some oral reprimands (and after sending Berry to sweep the lost-and-found archive), he was disheartened to find a satisfied Scamander, who informed him he had "successfully fed the creatures" and was now ready to go meet the phoenix.

Percival could only stare, stunned.

Scamander had successfully _"fed the creatures"_ while Percival had been gone. He couldn't have left the study without Percival's notice, but somehow he had still managed to have his potion fix, and it troubled Percival the rest of the day – how had he possibly missed any potions in Scamander's possession?

He made a firm decision then and there to do more field work. He was clearly losing his touch, if his spells couldn't detect a few potion vials in a close proximity.


	6. Percival: Witness to Addiction

Percival didn't know where to look. Or rather, he didn't know what he wanted to look at the most.

Newt was standing on a wobbly chair in the middle of the rose garden with the phoenix on his outreached arm. The Moon had his bare torso gleaming like silver and with his reddish-brown hair now a shade of silver as well, Newt could have been mistaken for a fae, one sent there to lure Percival to his doom. In all honesty, Percival wasn't quite sure whether that wasn't the case after all.

He resisted the urge to shift on his feet and focused on the task at hand.

Apparently, moonlight was vital when it came to first flies and broken phoenix wings. Newt had also insisted the phoenix would be able to "read their intentions the best" if their skin was bare, and that was how Percival now found himself standing in his backyard, shirtless, with an equally shirtless Newt, while a phoenix regarded the sky with no apparent intention of approaching it. Nonetheless, Percival didn't mind humoring Newt – after all, Newt was surprisingly knowledgeable when it came to magical birds.

"Come on then, Alfred," Newt was now encouraging the phoenix. "Your wing is healed now. Why don't you test it for a bit? Percival will catch you, if something goes wrong."

Two pairs of intelligent eyes turned their focus on him, as Aflred – as Newt had named the bird – and Newt both gave Percival assessing looks. Straightening his back, Percival flexed his fingers, calling for his magic in preparation, and gave a hint of a nod. Like always, he was ready to do his part.

As if reading his thoughts, Alfred spread his wings – and a moment later he was soaring up in the sky, while Newt jumped off the chair with a hoop of joy. Even Percival found himself smiling.

They had been successful – the phoenix was again able to fly.

In the three days Newt had been living in the manor, he had focused most of his attention on Alfred in between eating and jogging with Percival. He had been quick to find out Alfred had fractured one bone or another in his wing and had used several healing charms on the unresisting bird who, according to Newt, had come to Percival for help.

How a bird could know he would find help there, that Percival didn't know, but the phoenix was distracting Newt from the potions, so he was more than happy for Alfred's presence.

Wind rustled the rose bushes and Percival shivered before casting a warming charm on himself and on Newt, who didn't seem to notice from grinning up at the phoenix. His eyes were sparkling like the starry sky above was reflected on them, and Percival had to tear his gaze away before he was caught staring.

"Beautiful," Newt breathed out.

"Indeed," Percival agreed and looked anywhere but at Newt.

Due to the kidnapping of Lawrence Tutmaster's daughter, he was summoned to work soon after. Newt, still grinning, saw him (now professionally clothed) to the fireplace and Percival – despite of his sense of duty and love for his work – was almost reluctant to floo away.

* * *

"I'm sorry," said Newt the third time he clambered off Percival's lap with his face redder than Percival had ever seen it. "Harriett keeps on pushing me."

Closing _The Modern Wizard_ , Percival gave Newt a dry smile and put the book onto the sofa table. It was their fifth evening living together and finally Newt's addiction had made itself known: Newt had been clumsier than usual the whole evening, referring to his suitcase and this "Harriett" that kept on shoving him onto Percival.

"I can see no-one here but you and me," Percival felt the need to point out and, if possible, Newt's blush deepened.

"That's because Harriett's a demiguise," he addressed his words to his bare feet. "She's invisible."

How convenient.

Percival loathed the potions that addled such a bright mind and filled Newt's world with hallucinations.

* * *

When Percival stepped out of the fireplace and into his living room after flooing home from work, the first thing he saw was a blue bubble that floated towards him. It burst with a soft pop before reaching him, soon followed by two yellow bubbles and three green ones, and Percival, a bit exasperated, waved them off – he wasn't among the people who thought any a day could be improved with a few bubbles, rather he thought an unexpected bubble could mean trouble.

As it would happen, he was right – past the colorful bubbles, Newt was lying on the rug on his back with his half-lidded eyes staring up at the ceiling. Colorful bubbles emerged from his mouth with every hiccupping breath.

With a weary sigh, Percival put his black suitcase down by the fireplace and loosened his tie. Newt didn't react when he knelt down beside him, but he did blink when Percival patted his face insistently.

"Newt?"

It had been eight days since Newt had moved in – six since he had asked to be called "Newt, please, if you would," rather than Scamander – and while he had often talked about "getting into his suitcase" and "feeding the creatures", this was the first time Percival found him so heavily intoxicated.

"Newt?" Percival held Newt's face between his hands to get a better look at his eyes. "Can you hear me?"

Newt's half-lidded eyes blinked up at him, sluggishly.

"Can you hear me, Newt?"

"Of course," came the slurred answer. "I do have ears."

A slow frown formed on Newt's face. Both of his hands came up to fumble for his ears and he seemed startled to find Percival's hands there on the sides of his face.

"My goodness! Where are my ears? I've dropped my ears? Percival, _my ears!_ What has happened to my-"

"Your ears are fine." Percival removed his hands and allowed Newt to touch his ears. "I was just covering them with my hands."

"You… took my ears?"

"I did not."

"You didn't want me to hear your secrets?"

Leaving the nonsensical question unanswered, Percival pinched the bridge of his nose before casting a few diagnostical spells. He was no expert in healthcare, but he was passable enough in first aid for his spells to now be able to tell Newt's life was in no danger. According to the _Diagnostics Wonderors_ , Newt only needed rest and fluids, both of which Percival could help him with.

He put his wand away.

"What did you take?"

When no answer was immediately forthcoming – Newt had gone back to studying the ceiling – Percival asked again with more force and a bit of pat on Newt's cheek,

"What did you take, Newt?"

Newt hummed, thoughtfully. He seemed to be thinking the question through.

"Not enough precautions?"

"True," Percival agreed, "but I meant, what potion did you take?"

"How did you know about the potions?"

" _Potions_ , in plural?"

For once, Percival was the one avoiding eye contact – looking at Newt's usually so bright eyes now unfocused and dimmed and almost _empty_ twisted something deep in his heart. At least Newt was now there with him rather than on street in the mercy of uncaring hands.

"Just tell me, what did you take?"

"A mix of some eight healing potions," Newt slurred. "But it was all an _accident_ – Betty didn't mean it!"

What followed, was a rambling explanation on how something called Betty had "gotten into the potion cabinet" and how she had "accidentally evaporated" several of the fluids. Newt emphasized he had managed to spell the evaporated fluids off the air before any of the creatures had suffered any ill effects, but that he himself had breathed a lot of the mix in. By the time Newt went on to ramble about how it was natural for "Betty's kind" to snoop and how "she couldn't help it", Percival was no longer listening – Newt seemed to believe all he was spouting, he was clearly way off it.

Whatever he had taken had been potent.

"I'm going to take you to bed," Percival decided, rubbing a weary hand over his mouth.

There was a soft hum and an even softer, "For sex?"

"For SLEEP!" Percival suddenly held himself rigid, heart pounding louder than it had before. "For _sleep_ , Newt. You need to _sleep_ now. We're _not_ going to- to… But tomorrow we _are_ going to talk about your addiction. You clearly need more help than I can give you."

"Oh…"

A levitation charm aided Percival, as he took Newt upstairs into the guest bedroom. Apart from his bubbly hiccups, Newt didn't let out a sound the entire way there, but once Percival lowered him onto the bed, he shivered and mumbled something about it being his first time.

"Don't be too rough," he managed right before going limp and losing consciousness, and Percival was left there with his face burning to make sure Newt wouldn't suffocate on his own tongue.

Just in case, he called for Healer Thompson, who looked Newt over and then assured Percival all would be well with him come morning "although Mr. Scamander sure did digest quite a cocktail".


	7. Newt: The Problem

The breakfast was a quiet affair. Percival seemed to be deep in thought and Newt was hiding behind his fringe, spooning up porridge into his mouth quietly, trying to draw as little attention to himself as possible. Thinking of his behavior the evening before, Newt could feel his face reddening and a lump rising in his throat which would have prevented him from saying anything had he tried to form any words.

 _Don't be too rough,_ he recalled the forward words he had said to Percival and mortification was quick to settle in the bottom of his belly.

 _For sex?_

Had he really asked that? Newt resisted the urge to hide his burning face in his hands and swallowed instead a mouthful of porridge. He was attempting to be polite by pretending he had any appetite even though he would have rather just left the kitchen altogether. In fact, he would have rather just gone to hide in his suitcase, thank you very much.

Percival cleared his throat, breaking the silence that had fallen between them, and Newt's eyes shot down onto the porridge.

Porridge was safe. Porridge didn't have expressive eyes that had painfully many emotions and thoughts behind them. Porridge wasn't handsome and approachable and _completely off limits_.

"We should talk." Percival coughed once. He sounded uncharacteristically uncomfortable – this clearly wasn't an easy topic for him either, but the brave man he was, he pushed on, "We should talk about what happened yesterday when I found you on the living room carpet."

"I already know all you want to say," Newt managed, hoarsely, from the lump in his throat. "I'd rather not hear it."

He had already seen the rejection yesterday in Percival's sudden stiffening, he didn't want to hear it as well.

"Be that as it may," Percival said after a pause that went on for a little too long, "we still need to talk. Newt, you have a problem. You know that, don't you?"

Percival sounded gentle but serious. He likely wasn't meaning to cause Newt heartache, but was instead – as the proper, upright man he was – intending to make it clear for once and for all there could never be anything between them. He didn't want to lead Newt on. He didn't appreciate Newt's advances – he hadn't liked the advances when Harriett had been the cause for them and he didn't like them now when it was clear Newt was earnestly interested.

In more ways than one, Newt was lucky Percival wasn't the kind to take advantage.

Biting his lip, Newt shifted on his seat and lowered the spoon down into the bowl. His hands were shaking and he hid them under the table, wringing them in his lap where Percival couldn't see.

"I'm sorry," he said as sincerely as he could. "I know it must be- it must be uncomfortable to you. I didn't mean for things to go as they did, but I can't help feeling the way I do. I'm terribly sorry."

A chair scraped against the floor and soon after Percival was there kneeling by his side. A warm, calloused hand was wrapped comfortingly around Newt's neck.

"Newt," Percival's voice was low, reassuring, " _Newt_. You know you've got a problem, don't you?"

"I do," was barely a whisper and, oh, did it hurt to say it when the source of the problem was right there next to him, _touching_ him, talking to him kindly.

"You admit there's a problem," Percival sounded almost relieved. "You know you've got a problem and you admit it – by doing that, you've already taken the first step towards recovery. I'll help you, Newt, if you let me. Together we'll see you through this."

Glancing up briefly, the fringe between them a safe wall, Newt didn't quite know what to say to that.

"That's- gracious, of you," he settled for. "Most men wouldn't- wouldn't want to be anywhere near me, in similar conditions. I thought you'd rather I l-left."

The hand around his neck tightened its hold like the mere thought of Newt leaving was as repulsive to Percival as Newt's romantic feelings.

"You should stay," Percival said, firmly. "You're safe here and I've got food and resources to spare. Please, stay. You don't need to be alone in this. I know we don't know each other well, but you've got me, if you accept the offer."

The only sensible course of action was to leave, to save them both from the emotional agony, but as Professor Dumbledore had sometimes pointed out, being sensible wasn't always wise. Now, considering Percival – this good man right there kneeling by his side asking for him to stay – Newt couldn't help but think it was his part in life, to disregard the sensible course of action and throw himself blindly into the unknown, wise or not.

They wouldn't ever be romantically involved, he and Percival, but perhaps they could become friends. Percival seemed the type to make a loyal friend and Newt didn't have many friends, loyal ones even less. If they could get over Newt's unrequited feelings together, a lasting friendship might bloom from the ruins of the unwanted romance. It could well be worth trying.

Who wouldn't want a friendship with a wizard like Percival Graves?

"Do you think-" Newt cut himself off, quickly looking away to hide both his hesitation and uncertainty.

Percival waited patiently and finally Newt found the courage to ask, "Do you think we could become friends, Percival?"

Percival was quiet for several long moments, for so long, in fact, that Newt had to take a peek at him from under his lashes. There was a thoughtful frown on the handsome face, Percival seemed to be thinking the matter over in his thorough manner.

"I don't see why not," he eventually decided and Newt let out the breath he hadn't noticed he had been holding. "In fact, it would be an honor to count you among my friends, Newton Scamander."

"Likewise, Mr. Graves," Newt managed and focused his eyes on the smile tugging at the corners of Percival's lips. Then he quickly tore his gaze away, flushing – Percival wouldn't want him staring at his lips.

A few moments later, Percival cleared his throat.

"I know people who could help you," his voice held sympathy and not an ounce of judgement. "They've dealt with similar cases, they've made a career out of it. Specialist healers."

"Oh."

Newt thought about the matter.

"I don't think I need a healer. I just need… time."

"As your friend," Percival sounded more serious than Newt had ever heard him before, "I advice you to go to the healers who can help you. But now, as the case stands, my presence is needed at work and I have to leave sooner rather than later, so we must soon part ways for the day and we'll continue this discussion later. In all honesty, I'm reluctant to leave you here on your own in case your condition deteriorates. I'd rather you allowed me to take you to _The Blissfuls_.

" _The Blissfuls_ is a place where people recovering from addictions go to heal," Percival answered the question not yet asked, "and I'd like you to stay there at least until the evening. The idea of leaving you on your own after all the potions you took seems ill-advised."

"It's all right," Newt assured, his voice softer than he had meant since he didn't seem to be able to raise it for the time being. "I'll go."

In all actuality, Newt did feel a bit dizzy, still, so it sure wouldn't hurt to have someone keep an eye on him and his recovery. He would take his suitcase with him and feed the creatures at the recovery center.

Besides, if it meant securing Percival some peace of mind, Newt would gladly go to the healers for the day – he did owe as much to the man, who had allowed him to tend to Albert in his home for several days and who still allowed Newt to stay there with his creatures, the man who had agreed to pursue friendship with Newt even after finding out about Newt's inconvenient feelings for him. If Percival was worried Newt might suffer some consequences due to the unfortunate potion accident, it was better to go to the healers. Otherwise Percival's worry might get in the way of his auror business and then who knew what would happen! Percival was like that, a bit of a worrier, and Newt rather spared him from any unnecessary concern.

He could feel Percival's eyes on him, but try as he might, Newt couldn't meet them.

"I'll go," he repeated, meekly, and – after a reassuring squeeze – Percival finally let go off his neck in order to stand up.

"That's good." In the corner of his eye, Newt saw Percival adjusting his immaculate black suit. "It's decided, then. I'll take you there before I'll go to work."


	8. Newt: Decisions

"Please, don't," the low words held a warning, and Newt kept the suitcase firmly behind his back where Healer Thompson couldn't reach for it again. "I will not part from my suitcase. I'll rather keep it with me at all times. I don't mean to be rude, but it's valuable to me."

Healer Thompson gave him an unimpressed look over his square spectacles before writing something down onto the parchment hidden from Newt's view by the angle of the writing pad.

"Mr. Scamander," he said in a patient tone like he was used to his patients being somewhat unco-operative, "it's our policy to confiscate everything for the duration of a patient's stay and I couldn't possibly make an exception for you. The rules apply to everyone. Furthermore, if you have illegal potions in your possession, we'll need to know about them, so we can prevent you from taking or selling any while you stay with us."

"I have no illegal potions in my suitcase and my word on the matter will have to do. I apologize for any inconvenience, but you cannot have my suitcase."

"I'm afraid that's not quite enough for me, Mr. Scamander," Healer Thompson remained unmoved. "Either you allow us to take your suitcase, or you cannot stay in this facility."

It wasn't much of a choice after that and some half an hour later, Newt found himself walking around the Central Park with his suitcase securely in hand, a bit dizzy and annoyed both.

"How dare they even suggest such a thing," was said more in bewilderment than anger and he addressed the words to the creatures in the suitcase, "that I should trust you in their care! The nerve."

Newt kicked a rock out of his path, childish though that was of him, and instantly felt sorry for the rock and levitated it under a tree where it would be left in peace and no other annoyed magizoologist would kick it. He then put another rock next to it, just so they could keep each other company in case the rock and the tree wouldn't get along – rocks might well communicate, and just because humans weren't aware of it didn't mean they couldn't.

Really, rocks were still quite a mystery to the humankind.

Newt ended up walking to the statue of Goldulphus Graves and sat down onto the bench where he had first seen Percival sitting on Susan. Now, considerably calmer after his walk, he placed the suitcase next to him on the bench and took Pickett out of the inside pocket of his coat, not at all surprised to find the bowtruckle buried deep in the folds – the past few days the coat had been warmer than before and Pickett had quickly caught on, hiding himself deep in the inside pockets away from the cool autumn air. Initially Newt had been bewildered by the additional warmth, but after some inspections, he had noticed a new layer of magic coating the fabric, and the thought that Percival had cared enough to add protective charms on his coat warmed Newt even more than the coat did.

"I couldn't possibly hand any of you over to strangers," he told Pickett with a sigh, fishing into another coat pocket for some peat – the bowtruckle deserved a treat after having behaved so well the whole morning.

While Newt watched on, love and affection pushing the anxiety and the annoyance effectively out of his heart, Pickett withdrew onto the closed suitcase to nibble the peat.

"To quote you, Newt," a familiar voice interrupted the calm moment some minutes later, "get up."

Newt didn't need to look up to know Percival was standing in the shadow of Gondulphus' statue, but he did raise his gaze nonetheless, only to quickly lower it, a lump rising up to his throat. Percival's eyes were blazing, but more than that, his shoulders were slumped like he was disappointed, of all things.

"Get up, Newt," Percival said again, more firmly, "and come with me."

"Where to?" Newt kept his tone carefully neutral even as he shifted closer to his suitcase.

Not even Percival would take it from him. He'd disapparate before he would allow for that to happen.

"Back to The Blissfuls, of course. Healer Thompson contacted me after you left and I'm glad I managed to find you as soon as I did."

"I'm not going back there," Newt stated, stubborn and unwavering in his decision. "Healer Thompson wanted to take my suitcase away and I can't let him do that. I'll rather just stay here."

Sighing, with a pinched look on his face, Percival stepped closer and sat down onto the bench next to Newt with a flare of his black coat – thankfully not on the side with the suitcase on which Pickett was still nibbling his treat, as Newt wanted to keep himself between the suitcase and anyone who might want to take it from him, friend or foe.

"I want you to know I'm not mad at you," a heavy hand landed onto Newt's shoulder to accompany the gravely spoken words, "although I admit I'm disappointed. Newt, pet, I understand this is a big step, I understand you're nervous, but this really is for the best. Healer Thompson has dealt with addicts before. He could help you, better than anyone I know, but you need to let him. You have to want to get better. It all begins with you."

"Get better?" Newt frowned. "I appreciate your concern, I do, but this isn't really that serious. I only need some hours to rest and I'll be good as new."

The hand withdrew from his shoulder and Newt could feel Percival leaning back on the bench. Stubbornly, Newt followed suit and took a hold of Percival's hand, giving it a reassuring pat.

"I don't necessarily need a specialist," he promised and made sure to let go off Percival's warm hand before it made the man feel uncomfortable. "Actually, I could just sit on this bench and by dinnertime, all the effects of the potions will be gone, I can tell. Thank you, though. It's kind of you to care."

"Sure," Percival drawled out. "Sure, the effects will be gone in a few hours. But tell me, Newt, what will happen then? What will happen when you no longer feel the effects of the potions in your veins? What will you do, then?"

Bewildered, tracing a small hole on the knee of his pants, Newt thought about the matter. He had a feeling he was missing something vital here. It was almost like they weren't talking about the same thing at all.

"I suppose I'll get back to tending to the creatures," he eventually answered truthfully – only for Percival to let out a long sigh, as he leant forward to hide his face in his hand. The silver ring gleamed in the morning sun like the engraved cufflinks.

"Of course," Percival's voice was weary when he spoke again, clenching his hand into a fist and leaning his jaw onto it. "You'll go back to your suitcase, won't you – and if you don't actively work to change your behavior, that will always be your answer to all and every problem till the day you die. Addictions are no laughing matter, Newt. You should take yours more seriously."

Newt wasn't in a habit of staring, but now he was stunned enough to do so.

"It's hardly an addiction, if I get drugged once by an accident."

"Sure, once, by accident," Percival unclenched his hand and rubbed his neck, sighing, "but what then when it happens time after time after time? Is it still not an addiction when you see creatures that are not there, when you talk about getting into your suitcase to feed the creatures that don't actually exist? The first time we met, you were giving first aid to a pillow, Newt. Do you not remember that?"

What?

Newt blinked.

What?

"Susan is a flatlery, not a pillow."

Percival let out a frustrated noise and ran a hand through his hair before standing up.

"It appears you're still more intoxicated than I assumed. I ended up taking the day off to be with you, but we still better continue this discussion only when you're no longer under the influence." Decisive, he offered Newt his hand. "Come on then, my friend. I'll take you back to The Blissfuls. We'll talk more later when your head is clear."

Newt ignored the offered hand and remained sitting.

"My head is clear now, thank you very much, and I'm not going anywhere where someone wants to separate me from my creatures."

"There are no creatures," Percival said, tersely. "All the creatures are in your head, Newt. They don't exist. It's the potions that make you see them. The potions make you hallucinate."

"I beg your pardon?"

Pickett chose that moment to let out a demanding chirp from where he was standing on the suitcase. He had finished eating the peat and was now reaching out towards Newt with both arms. It was clear he wanted more. He was even glaring a little, the spoiled little thing he was.

"You've had enough," Newt told him, gently but firmly. "Too much peat is not good for you."

With a sad chirp, Pickett's shoulders slumped and he seemed to resign to his peatless fate.

Gesturing towards Pickett, Newt looked pointedly at Percival – See? Not a hallucination. – meeting the dark eyes steady on for once. Or at least he would have met Percival's eyes, if they hadn't been focused on Pickett, who was now in a process of climbing up Newt's coat.

"That's a-" floundering, Percival sounded taken off guard like someone had just pulled the rug from under his feet. "Isn't that a bowtruckle?"

"Yes, he is," said Newt, "and his name is Pickett. Pickett, of course, knows well who you are since we've been living together for some days now."

It was surprising Percival hadn't noticed Pickett before, but then again, it actually wasn't – Pickett had been infatuated with Newt's coat now that there was the new layer of warming magic on it. He had barely peeked out of the folds for several days and had harvested Newt's pockets for food rather than coming to ask for some himself. Come to think of it, even Newt hadn't seen Pickett for some days, although he had of course felt the little twig climbing around in his coat whenever Newt had been wearing it.

"But…"

Percival seemed to be having some trouble dragging his eyes away from Pickett.

"But bowtruckles are illegal. And they're against the regulation eight, part six. They're illegal."

"Well," said Newt, calmly, despite of the sudden pounding of his heart, as he wrapped a protective hand around Pickett and put him gently out of sight into his inside pocket, "good thing Pickett isn't real, then. Isn't that what you just said, Percival, that none of my creatures exist, that they're all in my head created by the potions addling my brain?"

Percival opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. After a pause, he closed it once more, just as his eyes shot to the closed suitcase. A frown appeared on his handsome face and he adjusted his silver cufflinks almost nervously like Newt had seen him doing on a few occasions.

"Your suitcase," Percival finally said, slowly. "If I were to open it, what would I find inside?"

"Oh. Erm…"

Newt was instantly nervous. It was one thing to allow a few harmless creatures to wander around within the safely confined manor of The Most Dutiful and Honorable House of Graves and completely another to allow the Director of Magical Law Enforcement to wander around within the confines of his magically enlarged suitcase. As much he liked and cared for Percival, Newt knew well which scenario was the more dangerous one.

"Um, you're not planning on opening it, are you?"

Percival looked down at the suitcase like it had just attempted a Cruciatus Curse. The dark eyes had grown calculated, more distant, more impersonal. This was not a friend standing before Newt.

This was the Director of Magical Law Enforcement making threat assessments.

"What's in it?"

"Some books," Newt said quickly, grasping the handle of the suitcase. "My toothbrush, some clothes. Um, plates and forks. A few… chairs."

A nundu, four dozens of bowtruckles, a couple of erumpets attempting to breed, a wounded unicorn, eight baby mooncalves, three demiguises, twelve dragon eggs, an obscurus-

"Um, a-a table and- and w-woolly socks. Nothing exciting. Parchment, quills, yarn, a t-typewriter-"

"And a creature called a flatlery, apparently," Percival cut him off. "I'm afraid that as an auror, I have to confiscate your suitcase for closer inspection."

Newt froze.

They couldn't have that. Sorry, but no. It would be terribly inconvenient to all parties involved.

With the suitcase safely in his hold, Newt had already partly disapparated, but a fast hand had attached onto his arm at the last possible moment and, despite of his struggling, it now pulled him forcefully away from the harbor and back to the Central Park.

Percival glared at him and the hand on Newt's arm tightened its hold.

"What were you thinking just then, hm? Do not try to run away again, Newt – it will only cause you more problems. Now, your suitcase, if you will."

Newt thought quickly and tried unsuccessfully to shake himself free from Percival's grasp.

He did have permits for some of the creatures, but not for all.

"You were right," he grew desperate, giving up struggling in order to hug the suitcase to his chest. "I'm an addict, Percival. I drink potions daily. In fact, I love potions. They're all I can think of. I drink them so much my brain doesn't work properly. There are no creatures, they're all in my mind. I'll- I'll be glad to allow Healer Thompson to look after all my property till evening, while I get the treatment I so desperately need, but please, Percival, don't confiscate my suitcase."

Percival met Newt's eyes, blinked – and seemed to hesitate.

"Mercy Lewis, Newt," he said in a low voice, his hold on Newt's arm gentling some, but still not letting go. "I'll have to fine you for the bowtruckle, but that won't be the end of the world, so don't look at me like that."

Newt didn't know how he was looking at Percival, but he knew he was frightened for his creatures.

While staying at Percival's home as his guest, Newt had believed Percival was aware of the creatures. Newt hadn't made their presence a secret and Percival had even been in contact with Harriett the demiguise. Apparently, Percival had still misinterpreted the situation and had all the while believed Newt was a potion addict hallucinating. That wouldn't have been the end of the world either – it might have perhaps even been an amusing misunderstanding – if it wasn't now for the fact that everything had just changed: where Newt had before believed Percival to accept the creatures and their presence, it was now impossible to tell how he would react to them.

Newt wasn't going to risk it. He couldn't take the risk Percival would react badly. A wizard as powerful as Percival could cause considerable harm to the creatures, both with his magic and by applying his needlessly strict laws.

"Please," Newt therefore pleaded and grasped a handful of Percival's fine black coat with the hand that wasn't hugging the suitcase to his chest, "let my suitcase be. You're a good man, I know it. Let me go and you'll never have to see me or the suitcase ever again. I promise I'll leave New York immediately."

Frowning, Percival looked away. He didn't seem to be able to hold the eye contact.

"I'm sorry, Newt," he said, softly, "but I can't let you go. It's my duty to make sure the contents of your suitcase pose no harm to my people."

* * *

They stood there at the door of his hut, looking down at the enclosures below. Creatures were roaming around, peacefully, clearly visible to where Newt and Percival stood silently, side by side. With a blank look on his face, Percival studied everything from Jason soaring high up above on the sunny sky to Sally the unicorn bathing in a rainbow puddle down in her valley. Rupert and Hulda were mating, their grunts loud even among all the chirping, mooing and general racket present when around creatures, and Percival seemed to be taking it all in, thoroughly, precisely, memorizing all he saw, categorizing everything for later.

While Percival studied the contents of the suitcase, Newt studied him.

What would Percival do? What would happen to the creatures?

If Percival decided to do something ill-advised, Newt would have to fight him. He would have to fight Percival and then get the suitcase and escape with his creatures. He didn't want to hurt Percival, but… perhaps a full body bind? No, Percival would free himself in moments, a capable auror as he was.

Newt bit his lip, wringing his hands. He would need to use the Calming Powder. Conveniently, he had some in his magically enlarged pocket. If need be, he'd use it on his friend just enough to knock him unconscious for a little while, only for long enough for Newt to take the creatures to safety.

"Do you-" Percival made a general waving gesture with his hand as if he didn't even know where to begin, but settled eventually for, "Do you have the permit for the magical enlargements?"

"I do," Newt said, proudly, while Jocelyn slithered by them with her little ones, brushing by Percival's left foot.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Percival looked after the small family and then turned his stare to Newt.

"Well?"

Newt tilted his head, questioning.

"Where is the permit?"

"Oh, you want to see it?"

Percival smiled, drily.

"Of course."

Newt looked around.

"Hmm, okay. In that case. It's right over…"

It was…

somewhere.

Luckily, they ended up finding the permit in Olivia's nest. Only two of her three heads hissed when Newt fetched it from below her eggs, while Percival looked on with a wand clenched in his fist.

"Do you happen to have a permit for… that?" Percival stared at Olivia afterwards, not moving an inch.

"For Olivia? Of course I do."

Newt wasn't a complete idiot.

It took them quite a while to look for and to find all the permits, but Newt was satisfied to see none had been lost or eaten, even if there were paw prints and dried tea on some.

"Right," said Percival, as he was presented with the last of the crumply permits, holding it carefully by the corner between his thumb and middle finger.

"At least they smell like chamomile," said Newt, encouragingly.

He was rewarded with a startled chuckle and it eased something between them.

* * *

"Not a potion addict, then," said Percival, having read through all the permits. "How embarrassing to me."

"Think nothing of it." Newt patted his back in passing, consoling, before pouring more tea into Percival's now empty teacup. "If anything, we're even now, what with my initial misinformed assessment of you."

Newt hadn't had a permit for the bowtruckles and so Percival had ended up fining him for that. It was one of the seven fines Percival gave him, but inconvenient though it all was, Newt didn't mind paying them if it meant no other consequences would be had. He had been afraid Percival might take the creatures away, but that fear had been for nothing, as Percival had decided the creatures would be better off with someone who actually knew what to do with them.

"I promised to be there for you when I thought you were an addict," Percival now said, seriously, putting all the permits in one pile in his neat manner, "and I intend to keep that promise. We'll start by getting your permits in order. Lucky for you, I'm the man to come to with that."

Percival was the man to come to for more than the permits, but Newt kept that to himself. He was blushing enough as it was, what with a handsome wizard sitting here in his hut, surrounded by the things Newt loved, drinking the tea Newt offered for him.

"There's one thing that bothers me, though," Percival went on after having swallowed a few mouthfuls of the tea. "This morning when I talked to you about getting you help, you agreed to it rather easily. In fact, you even admitted to there being a problem. If you're not an addict, what was the problem you thought I was talking about?"

Newt almost dropped the teapot. In all actuality, he did drop it, but the clever thing flew back to its place onto the table, used as it was for getting dropped or pushed accidentally off surfaces.

"Erm," Newt didn't know what to say. He thought they had already had this conversation – would he have to get rejected the third time?

"Newt?" Percival prompted, encouragingly. "We agreed to try for friendship, didn't we. You can share your thoughts with me as freely as you're comfortable with, but if you don't want to talk about it, don't feel pressured. Friends don't have to share everything."

Newt swallowed hard and took his seat at the table, opposite to Percival.

Percival deserved to know.

"It's just…" he hesitated, "it's about what I said to you, yesterday."

Newt couldn't bring himself to look at the man on the opposite side of the table and so he focused on the hole on his pant's knee again.

"What you said," repeated Percival after a pause. "You mean, when you were intoxicated?"

"When you were putting me to bed, yes."

"Ah. I didn't know you remember that."

They were quiet for a moment.

"Am I correct to assume," Percival then said, "that you find my reaction to your words problematic rather than your words themselves? I mean to ask, did I give you the impression that I wasn't interested, that you were offering and I rejected you?"

His face was burning, but Newt still managed a quick nod.

"Ah," Percival said again, lowering his teacup down onto the table, as he leant forward, closer. "But Newt, under those circumstances, of course I rejected your offer. It would've been immoral to accept. I'm not one to take advantage of someone as helpless as you were. You passed out right after, you know. I actually had Healer Thompson to come over to take a look at you. I was worried."

"I'm sorry," and Newt truly was. "I didn't mean to put you in such an uncomfortable situation."

"It's okay."

For a while, they sat in comfortable silence while Pickett played with bread crumbs on the table between them.

Then Percival cleared his throat.

"Do you know why I wanted to help you when I thought you were an addict?"

Newt shook his head.

"Because you were so bright." Percival reached over the table for Newt's hand. "Cheesy as that may sound. I wanted to brighten you up further. I wanted to keep your brightness near me for longer. I saw how tender and caring you were and I thought I could help you to save yourself."

A thumb caressed Newt's calloused fingers, each at a time.

"I don't mean to make you uncomfortable, either," Percival's voice was low, "but I have to ask if you might be interested in inspecting the physical side of our new-found friendship now that I know there's no potion clouding your mind? I'm very much attracted to you, Newt, and I like you a lot. You're beautiful and intelligent, with the kindest of hearts to boot. I would love to- But of course, I don't mean to pressure you, I'm merely letting you know it's an option."

Simultaneously dumbfounded and feeling like soaring, Newt pulled his hand away and stood up.

In the end, it was a simple thing to go around the table and lean down. Even simpler yet it was to press a soft kiss on Percival's lips.

"I would like that," he confessed, voice barely above a whisper. "Quite a lot, in fact."

It was, after all, his fate in life, to jump blindly into the unknown.

* * *

 _A:N/ Liked it? Let me know._


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